It's impossible to
dispose of the place."
"Then why not sell it to me?"
He dropped his pencil; he was a bit nervous.
"A fair question, Mr. Wendel--a very fair question. Well, now, why
don't I? Perhaps I shall. There's no telling. But I'd rather not.
Do you know, a year ago I would have jumped at an offer. Fact is,
I did lease it--the lease ran out yesterday--to a man named
Watson. I don't believe a thing in this nonsense; but what I have
seen during the past year has tested my nerve considerably."
"What about Watson?"
"Watson? A year ago he came to see me in regard to this Chatterton
property. Wanted to lease it. Was interested in the case of Dr.
Holcomb; asked for a year's rental and the privilege of renewal. I
don't know. I gave it to him; but when he drops in again I am
going to fight almighty hard against letting him hold it longer."
"Why?"
"Why? Why, because I don't believe in murder. A year ago he came
to me the healthiest and happiest man I ever saw; today he is a
shadow. I watched that boy go down. Understand, I don't believe a
damn word I'm saying; but I have seen it. It's that cursed house.
I say no, when I reason; but it keeps on my nerves; it's on my
conscience. It is insidious. Every month when he came here I could
see disintegration. It's pitiful to see a young man stripped of
life like that; forlorn, hopeless, gone. He has never told me what
it is; but I have wondered.
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